


Head Trip

by lamardeuse



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-22
Updated: 2010-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Written for due South Flashfiction on Livejournal (six challenges: Darkness, Door, Movies, Voyeurism, Shakespeare, and Recipe).

  
_I:  Darkness_

  
He'd always hated the darkness.

Back when he was first married, Stella and him could never agree on how much light they should have on during the night.  He wanted a night light on, something, partly for security, and partly because he tended to fall over stuff when he got up at two a.m. to use the bathroom.  But Stella needed things black, pitch black, sensory deprivation level here, because if she didn't have that her mind chased its tail like a mad dog, she couldn't sleep, and was cranky the next morning.  

Well.  Eventually she was cranky all the time, but that was for a different reason. 

Even the weakest night lights were no good, they bugged her, and sleep masks were out, they gave her headaches.  So Ray would lay awake a lot of nights, listening for the sounds of someone jimmying the door, wondering how many toes he was going to mash tonight during the trip to the john. 

When he got the chance to work night shift, he jumped at it.  Sleeping during the day was great, except for the huge, gaping problem that there was no one beside him.

If he could've known the future, he would've seen it as practice.

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
So when Fraser and Ray left on their adventure, it occurred to him that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea--well, on about a hundred levels, but also because it would probably get pretty dark at night, what with no electric lights or anything.  And call him crazy, but Ray figured getting a few hours' sleep once in a while would be a good idea, considering this adventure stuff probably took a lot out of you.

But the Northwest Areas were full of light.

Once you were away from the city, it was shocking how bright the night sky really was, with the gaping wound of the Milky Way slicing through constellations and empty space, pouring light down on your head.  And there was the moon, which when it was full seemed to rival the sun for sheer power.  And then the snow would take all this light and reflect it back, making everything seem to glow, making the air almost shimmer with cold silver energy. 

But Ray still didn't get much sleep. 

Because one night early on, in the middle of a dream about drowning in blackness so thick it filled up his nose and his mouth until he couldn't breathe, he awoke with a start and saw Fraser, asleep, his expression peaceful, unguarded, happy, happier than Ray'd ever seen him.

Fraser, lying beside him, with the stars lighting him up, making him seem--it was like his face was _glowing _with it, like one of those Renaissance religious icons, only this was no trick of paint and gold leaf, this was true, here.  This was real.

This was Fraser, where he belonged.  Somewhere between open sky and snow, where the horizon blended them together, until you were walking in the clouds.

And where did he belong?

Ray thought about it a long time. 

Then he squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with his hands to block out the light.

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

 

So now Ray slept in the dark, pitch dark black, black hole black, just like Stella had once, and he laughed when he first thought that Fraser could've helped him save his marriage, if only he'd gone on an Arctic adventure with him and fallen in love with the way the starlight fell on his skin.  But now he didn't think it was funny any more.

Because he was still sleeping alone.  And that sucked.

Punching the pillow again, Ray rolled over in the darkness and waited for sleep to come. 

When he dreamed, he dreamed of light.

 

 

    
    
    
    
 

_  
II:  Door_

  
He dreamed of a door.

The door looked familiar, somehow, but he didn't think about it too much because something was telling him the only important fact about that door was that he had to get on the other side of it, fast.  There was someone waiting for him on the other side, someone he needed desperately, someone he needed to make everything make sense.  He knew that like he knew his own name.

So he yanked the door open and light exploded around him and at first he was blinded.  He threw up his arm against it and blinked away tears and when he could finally focus again he took away his arm and saw--

"Hello, son."

\--an old guy.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Being American is an insufficient excuse for rudeness," the guy said primly, "though it is an explanation of sorts."

"Oh my God," Ray breathed.  "You're Fraser's dad."

The other man grunted.  "At least you're not as dim as I suspected."

Ray looked around at his surroundings.  The two of them were standing in the middle of a vast, rolling tundra exploding with short, brilliantly coloured flowers.  There was no sign of the door.  "Am I dreaming?"

Fraser, Sr. pursed his lips, leaned closer and nodded, as if reassuring a small child.  "Probably best to think of it that way."

"I've been here before," Ray said, studying the landscape.  "This is, this is where we looked for the Hand, except it didn't look like this."

"That's because it's summer now, son."

Ray scowled at him.  "You're not gonna pull some it's-a-wonderful-life-Christmas-bullshit, are you?"

"Christmas in July?  No."  The old man looked out across the tundra.  "Besides, I was never very good at holidays."

Ray stabbed a finger at him.  "You gave him that picture!" 

The other man turned to him, a faint hint of embarrassment on his face, and the expression was so much like Fraser's that Ray couldn't breathe for a second.

He smiled in spite of the weirdness of wanting to reassure a figment of his imagination.  "You're not as bad at holidays as you think."

The old man's mouth quirked.  "Well.  Death seems to have improved my parenting skills."

The memory of the smile on Fraser's face when he unwrapped the picture filled up his brain, making him dizzy.  Suddenly, he wanted to find his way out of there, fast.  "So why'm I here, Dad?"

"Why do you think you're here?"

Ray shook his head.  "No, no way, this is my dream, I do not want to dream about having my head shrunk.  Just tell me what you've got to tell me and get it over with."

"Well.  The direct approach, then."  The old guy took a deep breath, then jerked his head to the side, and Ray heard a sharp crack.

Ray's heart jumped in his chest like a panicked deer.  "On second thought, maybe I'll cut this visit short," he said, turning on his heel.  If he just kept walking, he'd eventually either wake up or croak, right?

"He needs you."

Ray stopped dead, frozen solid in the middle of a carpet of flowers.

He shook his head again, more violently, like he was trying to fling it from his neck.

"That's just--just me sayin' what I want to hear," he said, voice dull.  "You're just part of my head."

"If you say so," the other man said calmly.

"Fuck!"  He thumped his fists against his temples.  "Wake up, wake up, you stupid shit!"

"Have you ever considered that your problems with romantic relationships might stem from your appalling lack of self-esteem?"

Ray spun back around, fists still clenched.  "Look, figment or not, Fraser's dad or not, I will punch you."

"You almost lost him once with a punch," the old man told him sharply.  "Do you want to lose him forever with another one?"

"I already _lost _him, goddammit!" Ray yelled.

"Not yet," the other man said quietly.  "Not yet."

And that was just too much--hope--for Ray to fight.  Before he could stop it, his heart strained toward the promise of those two words, struggled for freedom from the dark, deep hole he'd stuck it in since he got on that plane and watched Fraser waving to him from the ground until he disappeared.

Ray's mouth opened.  Closed again.

"Show me," he said, before he could take it back.

 

 

 

    
    
    
    
 

_III:  Movies_

  
A movie theatre.  They were in a fucking _movie theatre_.

The place was one of those old, extravagant palaces that had names like--well, the Palace or the Majestic or the Bijou.  Beside him, Fraser Sr. sat, loudly crunching popcorn.

"If you're dead, how come you're still eating?"

"Well, I always loved buttered popcorn, but I only got it about once every five years.  I suppose it was decided I was entitled to some small rewards for a life well-lived."  He stuffed another handful in his mouth, then made a sour face.

"What's the matter?"

"Hmm?  Oh, nothing, son.  The Man Upstairs is a bit liberal with the salt sometimes, that's all."

Ray frowned.  "So what's up?  I thought we were going--"

"To Benton?"  The old man cleared his throat.  "Patience, lad."

"What is this, _The Karate Kid_?  What do I need patience for?"

"Shh--the movie's starting."

The projector roared to life, and in front of them, black and white images danced and swirled.  The MGM lion, in all his glory, back when Mayer was still king of the jungle.

_Test Pilot,_ with Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy and Myrna Loy.  His mom had been crazy about Gable, he remembered.  Another king, bigger than life.

"I used to love movies in Yellowknife," Fraser Sr. murmured wistfully.  "Lana Turner was singlehandedly responsible for jump-starting me into puberty."

"Yeah, singlehanded probably had a lot to do with it," snorted Ray.

The old man shot him a look.  "And you went to the movies to see..."

"Steve McQueen," Ray answered automatically, then bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

"Hm."

"Look, I did not jerk off thinking of Bullitt, all right?" Ray snarled.  "I wanted to _be _him."

"Why?"

"Because--because he was cool.  He was everything--"

_Everything I wasn't._

"Yes," the old man said, as if Ray had finished his sentence.  "I thought as much.  You and my son also have that in common."

"What do you--"

"Shh.  Watch."

Ray threw up his hands in frustration, then turned back to the screen.  As he watched, Clark Gable strode across it, three stories high, wearing his killer smile and generating enough charm to power Toledo.  He climbed into his plane, and Spence snugged down the canopy, then blew him a smart-assed kiss.  Stuck a half-chewed wad of gum on the fuselage, like he'd done it a hundred times before. 

Saying I love you with superstition and Wrigley's.

And even though he'd never seen the movie before, Ray knew right then how it was going to end. 

He didn't want to watch any more, but he couldn't make himself get up. 

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

 

"So what the hell was the point of that?" Ray demanded, when he could trust his voice.  It was a dated, hokey melodrama, but the image of Gable standing there and carrying on a calm conversation with tears trickling down his face, fucking naked and wide open because his best friend was dead...

"You didn't like it?"

"It sucked big rocks," Ray snapped.  "Why'd one of them have to die?"

"Because the idea of Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy opening up a little flight school together in the heart of the Midwest was beyond the tolerance of the Production Code of the 1930s, I imagine," said Fraser Sr. tartly. 

Ray blew out a breath.  "Again I say, what was the point?"

"That's you and Benton up there, son."

"Great.  So I'm destined to die in a plane crash with him crying over me?"

"I'm not implying that's your _exact _history--"

"--'Cause your kid's made me do stunts almost as dumb.  I think maybe he got that from you--"

"--but you have to admit there are certain similarities--"

"--hangin' onto planes, jumpin' out of 'em, sledding down mountains, I'm surprised I'm not pushing up daisies by now--"

"I'm trying to get to the point!"

"Then get to it already!"

"He doesn't believe that he deserves you either!"

Ray stared at the old man, who flung an exasperated arm at the dark screen.  "Benton grew up isolated, with few friends of his own age.   His ideal of love was one he couldn't imagine for himself.  One of a deep and abiding concord so intense that one would die for the other without hesitation."

Ray opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut.

"Exactly," Fraser Sr. said with satisfaction.  "When you drive a motorcycle through a glass window, it's fairly obvious, isn't it?"

Ray opened his mouth again.

"And don't pretend you would have done that for anyone."

Ray closed it again.  Shook his head.

"What's the matter, Yank?"

"Oh, nothing.  I've got a dead guy showing me old movies and telling me to go bag his son.  What could be the matter?"

The old man's face reddened slightly.  "I only want Benton's happiness.  As does his mother."

Ray's mouth compressed into a thin line.  This was heading straight into downtown Weirdsville.  "He's happy.  He's home.  I saw him--saw the way he looked up there.  He's good."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

No.  "Yeah."

"That's the problem with you Yanks," the old man huffed.  "Always so bloody cocky."  And then he snapped his fingers, and Ray's world faded to black.  


 

 

 

    
    
    
    
 

_IV:  Voyeurism_

  
Okay.  This dream already took the prize as Ray's longest, most elaborate hallucinatory experience, and that included the senior prom when Danny McIvor spiked the punch with LSD. 

But when he _popped _out of the theatre and back to the tundra again, it occurred to him once more that this was pretty fancy dreaming, here.

It was the middle of the night, and although it was a lot warmer than the last time he'd been here, the temperature had still dropped considerably since the daytime.   Wrapping his arms around himself, he turned slowly to take in the terrain, and spied a cabin about fifty yards away, its windows glowing yellow.  The moon was full, and the air was almost unnaturally still.

_Of course it's unnatural.  None of this is real.  
_  
It was then he noticed he was alone.  "Ah--Mr. Fraser?"  Great, now he sounded like a pimply sixteen-year-old asking Fraser's dad what time he should bring his boy home.  "You here?"

"I think I'll let you handle this one on your own, son."

Ray spun in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. 

Nothing.  Nobody.

"You're all freaks," Ray muttered, and started off toward the cabin. 

Like with the movie, he had a strong suspicion of what was coming next.  And an equally strong suspicion it was going to suck rocks.

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

 

  
He looked like shit.

Well, as much as Fraser could look like shit, that is, which meant he still looked about a hundred times better than most guys on their best day.  He was dressed in loose plaid pajamas, the top open to mid-chest, baring a tantalizing expanse of smooth skin.  But Ray could see that he'd lost weight, and there were bags under his eyes that hadn't been there when they'd last seen one another, three months and five days ago. 

Okay, so he was counting.

Ray hated that this was the way his mind had to picture him, so much so that he derived hardly any pleasure from seeing Fraser again.  It was like an anti-fantasy; instead of imagining him as perfect and gorgeous and happy up here, he had to make him pathetic and wasting away from loneliness.  Pining for Ray's skinny Polack ass.

He wondered how the dream would turn out, if Fraser was able to see him or if it was one of those Ghost of Christmas Past things.  He moved closer to the window when Fraser got up from the couch to walk to the kitchen, then watched him come back a minute later with a can in his hand.

Coke.  It wasn't as if he never drank soda, but Ray knew he didn't usually drink anything caffeinated after supper, not even tea. 

"You won't be able to sleep, buddy," he said softly, then worried Fraser had been able to hear him.  But the other man didn't look over, didn't move his eyes from the small TV glowing in the corner. 

TV.  Wow.  Fraser was getting soft, even if the set was so tiny it looked like ants built it.  From this angle, Ray couldn't tell what was playing.  Moving carefully in the dark, he walked over to the window closer to the kitchen, which would place him more in line with Fraser where he sat sprawled on the couch, instead of in front of him.

Peering in, he squinted at the TV, trying to make out the picture.  What channels did they get up here?  The Caribou News Network?

Wait a minute.

That was Frannie. 

And Welsh, and Huey, and Dewey, and--him.  Dressed up in some puffy yellow coat that made him look like the Michelin Man crossed with a baby chick.

Shit.  It was their going-away party, after Fraser'd packed up all his stuff and mailed it North, right before they'd flown back up to the Territories to start their adventure.  Somebody must've taped it and given Fraser a copy.  He didn't remember--he'd been half-cut for most of it.

It had been one of the worst days of his life.  He didn't want to fucking remember it.  Because even though they'd spent two months together up here, it was the end of their duet, only postponed on account of adventure, and he knew two months wouldn't be enough. 

Hell, forever wouldn't be enough.

But evidently Fraser wanted to remember it, because his eyes were glued to the screen like he was memorizing every frame.  A nuclear explosion could've gone off where Ray was standing and he probably wouldn't have noticed.

Who was he so interested in?  Was it just nostalgia? 

Ray's gaze left the TV when he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye, and watched as Fraser upended the last of the Coke, then set it down on the table.  He scrubbed at his face with both hands, and a long shudder ran through his obviously exhausted body. 

Ray frowned.  _Go to sleep, Frase.  Please._

As if Fraser had heard him, he shifted on the couch so that he was lying sideways, his long legs stretched out in front of him.  If the glass hadn't been in the way, Ray could've reached out and touched his toes.  His gaze rose toward Fraser's face, traveling up the plaid--

Holy.  Shit.

Fraser was hard.

No, really.

Ray tried to look away, but couldn't.  Something on that tape had gotten Fraser hot and bothered, and like any normal male of the species, he was about to pop a seam.  But unlike any normal male of the species who was alone in the middle of the frickin' wilderness, he wasn't making a move to do anything about it.  He just kept staring at the TV as though it held all the secrets of the universe. 

Okay, there was the dog, but Dief wasn't anywhere to be seen, and besides, he was deaf.  The dog wouldn't have hindered Ray if he had had that kind of a boner.

The tape ended, and the screen dissolved into snow.  Pushing himself tiredly to his feet, Fraser padded over to the VCR beside the set and popped out the tape, then fished under the TV for another, and jammed it in the machine.

Ray nearly had a coronary when he saw the images flickering in miniature.

It was him.  It was the tape of that goddamned baseball game he'd replayed so many times he'd driven Fraser nuts.

Or so he thought.  Because Fraser was still staring at the TV, still fucking _riveted_, here.

Ray caught the tail end of another full-body shudder, and against his better judgment his gaze rose to see--

\--that Fraser was even harder.

Jesus.  Jesus.  Fraser was hard for him. 

And still not doing anything about it.

God.  Did he do this to himself every night?

"Fraser," he whispered.  "Ben."  A plea.  Not so he could watch, no, so he could know that somewhere at the end of this there was some kind of closure, some kind of release from this prison he was building around himself.

That he didn't really torture himself like this, balanced on the edge of wanting something so desperately it had to fucking _hurt, _and still telling himself no.  
_  
You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?_

Ray started at the voice, which seemed to be coming from inside his head now.  The hell of it was, he couldn't tell if it was his, or Fraser's, or his dad's.

"Ben, please," Ray said.  "Just, I need to see you--I mean, I need you to--I need to believe it's going to be okay, that you're going to be--okay--"  That sounded lame even to his own ears, but it was the truth, as far as he could understand it.

He wanted to believe everything was for the best.  That everyone was where they needed to be. 

Ray in the dark. 

Fraser in the clouds.

And then Fraser looked up, and eyes the colour of summer thunderstorms locked with his, and Ray stumbled backwards as though he'd been sucker-punched--

\--and woke up shivering, his skin clammy and chilled like he'd just spent a night on the tundra.

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

  
_V:  Shakespeare_

  
Okay.

Don't panic.  Don't stroke out. 

"You're awake," panted Ray.  "Just relax.  You're awake now."

Throwing off the sheet, Ray bounded to his feet and strode into the bathroom, shedding his boxers as he went.  Fucking Chicago heat wave was messing with his head, creating a dream that felt way more real than any dream had a right to be.

Despite the bake-oven stuffiness of the darkened apartment, he shivered in spite of himself as he stepped under the stinging spray of the shower.  The look in Fraser's eyes, raw and open as Gable's in that movie, still haunted him.  Ray'd never seen him look like that before.

No.  That was a lie.

He'd seen that look at the airport, when he turned back at the last minute.  He promised himself he wouldn't do anything dumb, but he couldn't resist that, couldn't resist that one last glimpse of Fraser, and so at the door leading to the tarmac he'd turned back and seen the look Fraser had never intended him to see.

Raw.  Open. 

It scared the shit out of him, because he'd never seen the other man look quite that vulnerable.  It was as though he'd stepped down off that pedestal and joined the rest of the human race, the rest of the slobs who wanted something so bad they could taste it.

And before Ray could think too hard about what that look meant, Fraser realized Ray was watching him, and it disappeared so quick that he was sure he'd imagined it.

So that was how his brain had created it.  God, just like on the ship, when he'd gotten all worked up over that buddy breathing thing, convinced himself it meant more than it did.  Was the history of their friendship, every look, every gesture, every touch, going to be served up in his dreams night after night?

Man.  Might as well fill up the tub and drown himself, get it over with now.

"Oh, for heavens' sake, son, surely it's not as bad as all that."

"JESUS CHRIST!"  Ray shoved back the shower curtain with one arm, revealing--

\--a dead Mountie in his bathroom.

"JESUS CHRIST!" he yelled again, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

"There's no need for dramatics--"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BATHROOM!" Ray roared, because it was occurring to him that he was naked and there was a big puddle pooling on the floor, and if Mrs. Rafferty's ceiling leaked again he was going to be in the shit.

The old guy narrowed his eyes at Ray.  "You're not going to end your sea of troubles in the next five minutes, I take it."

"NO!"

"Good."  Fraser Sr. turned to leave, then turned back.  "Because I've put a lot of effort into coming here."

"GET OUT!" Ray yelled. 

"I'll wait for you to finish, then," the old guy said, and left.

Ray stood there, shaking, for a good five minutes, until the tepid water turned unbearably, ball-freezingly cold, and then he got mad, because if he was headed for a rubber room, he was damn well going to face it dry and with his clothes on.  So he shut off the taps and climbed out of the tub and toweled off, then yanked open the door and shot the dead guy a look that said, I will punch you, on his way to his bedroom, where he put on a semi-clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

"Okay," he said, walking back into the living room and flinging himself on the couch.  "You have exactly one minute to state your case, and then if you are not gone I will call the funny farm and tell them to send the truck for me."

"You're not making this easy," the old man--ghost--whatever--pouted.

"Let me try," Ray said, baring his teeth.  "You're going to tell me you sent me that dream I just had.  That you are here to convince me Fraser loves me, wants me, needs me, can't live without me."

"You've hit it right on the head, son!"  Fraser Sr. crowed.  "Good for you!"

"Not only that, you're going to get me to hop on the next plane to North Bufu, find Fraser and declare my undying devotion.  Then, after a wet, passionate--"

"Well, ah," the old man interrupted, "no need to give me any more details than that.  As long as you're both happy.  So, you're convinced then?"

"Yeah, I'm convinced," Ray muttered.  "Convinced I'm nuts."  Leaning over the side of the couch, he picked up the phone.

"Wait!"

"Wait for what?  I've finally done it.  Stella didn't do it, working undercover until I forgot my own name didn't do it, oh no, that would've been too easy.  No, I have to go over the deep end on account of a tight-assed--"

"I told you, no details--"

"--pemmican-eating, curling-watching Canadian Mountie freakazoid from a place that makes Chicago in January look like Tahiti."  He shook his head, stabbed the 9 with his index finger.

"Before you do that, call him first."

Ray's hand stilled over the keypad.

"It's like, six a.m.  Five his time, I think.  Too early even for him."

"He's not asleep."

Ray scowled at him.  "How the hell do you know that?"

The old man regarded him steadily.  "You know it too."

Ray's heart tripped over itself in its race to escape from his chest. 

"Dial the number, son," Fraser Sr. said gently.

Ray hung up, then began punching the keypad slowly, carefully. 

Fraser picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

Ray nearly dropped the receiver.

"Hello?"

"It's, ah, it's me," he said, ending it with a chuckle that sounded stupid to his own ears.  "Sorry to wake you up."

"I wasn't--that's...that's all right."

Ray's heart pounded against his ribs. 

"How are you, Ray?"

"Fine.  Good.  I'm good."  He tried to breathe in enough air, but it had disappeared from the room.  "How you doin'?"

"I'm--well, thank you."

"They treatin' you good up there?"

"Not as well as I was treated in Chicago," Fraser said, and there was a smile in his voice, but it was a thin one.

"That bad, huh?"

The crack earned a chuckle.  "It's horrible," Fraser said lightly.

Ray tried not to read anything into that.  "So, ah, you liking the weather up there?"

"It's really quite beautiful here at this time of year.  The tundra is covered with flowers.  Though it was a little chilly tonight."

Ray frowned.  "Windy?"

"No, it was unusually calm.  Not a breath of wind."

Ray's fingers tightened on the receiver.

"Ray?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

_Here.  Here.  You were never there._

"Ray, I--"

"Yeah?"

Over hundreds of miles of phone line, he could hear Fraser breathing.  "It's--it's just odd that you called.  Because, uh, that is, I was thinking of you earlier."

"Yeah, me too.  That's why I called."

"Really?"

"Yeah."  He was starting to sound like a broken record.

_Ray, do you miss me?_

Yeah.

_Ray, do you love me?_

Hell, yeah.

"--Ray.  Ray."

"Huh?  Yeah, yeah, sorry."

"I--I asked if there was a particular reason you called."

"Yeah, yeah, there was."  Ray ignored the churning in his gut, the tightness of his skin.  "You, ah, I don't suppose you got a copy of the tape from our going-away party, do you?  The one at the station?  'Cause I tried to play my copy the other day, only the tape seems to be busted or something, and I can't get a picture."

"Yes, I have a tape of that.  I'll be happy to make a copy of it and send it down to you."

Ray was amazed he could still speak, considering all the spit had suddenly left his mouth.  "Great.  Greatness.  You still got my address?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Okay, good.  I'll send you some sauerkraut or something, maybe a box of donuts for Dief, huh?"

Another chuckle, though this time Ray knew it was forced.  "Sounds like a fair trade."

"Okay, well, I'll let you get some sleep.  Talk to you later."

"Take care, Ray."

It took Ray three tries to hang up the phone.  When the receiver finally slammed home, he  
looked up at the old man and said, "Okay.  You win."

Fraser Sr. shook his head.  "No, lad.  You both do."

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

 

O'Hare was pretty busy even at nine on a Sunday morning.  Guys in business suits, women dragging efficient little plastic suitcases on wheels that looked like they could hold about half a toothbrush.

"Gate 56," the woman behind the counter said.  "Is that all your luggage, sir?"

Ray stared at her for a second, completely zoned, then slung the duffel over his shoulder and onto the scale.   He couldn't even remember what the hell he'd packed.  "Yeah.  Here."

"Thank you," she said, tagging it quickly and hauling it off the scale and onto the conveyor, then handing him his ticket.  "Pre-boarding is in twenty minutes.  Have a pleasant flight."

"Thanks," Ray murmured, and then he was moving, moving forward, trying like hell not to look back, not to think about how crazy this was.  He changed planes in Edmonton; he could call Welsh from there.  He'd used up most of his vacation time already, but he thought he still had a few days coming.  Of course, Welsh was going to be kind of pissed about the short notice, but he couldn't help that.

He felt like he couldn't help anything.  But maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a bad way to be.

"I'll leave you here, son."

Ray stopped and faced the old man.  "Thanks.  I think."

"You're welcome."

"Look, ah--I know you don't want details, but I just want you to know--he is more important to me than my life."

Fraser Sr.'s smile was full of understanding.  "I knew that from the first.  Take care of yourself, Yank.  And remember this:

"If we shadows have offended,  
Think but this, and all is mended,  
That you have but slumb'red here  
While these visions did appear."

And with a wink, he was gone.

"Freak," Ray said affectionately.  And without a backwards glance, he headed into his future.

  


 

 

    
    
    
    
 

_  
VI:  Recipe_

  
Nuts.

Nuts. 

Where the hell were the nuts?  The store was so small he'd been around it six times in ten minutes, and he was starting to panic, here, because he shouldn't have assumed they had nuts in this burg--

"Can I help you, dear?"

Ray started at the sound of a voice directly behind him and thought _Jeez, not more of 'em_, but when he turned around he didn't see any ghosts, just a short, middle-aged lady with really orange hair.

"I, ah, yeah," Ray blundered.  "You got any nuts?  Like, for baking?"

"Yes, certainly," she said, pointing to a shelf right by his head.  "We have walnuts and almonds.  We're out of pine nuts, I'm afraid, but I'm expecting a shipment tomorrow."

"Ah, that's okay, the walnuts are great," Ray murmured, feeling his face heat as he blindly grabbed them off the shelf.  Right in front of his nose, and he hadn't even seen them. 

He snorted and smiled to himself.  So what else was new?

The lady cocked an eyebrow at him, and his smile disappeared as he recognized the look.  It was that small town _I'm about to stick my nose in your shorts_ look.

"You're American, aren't you?"

"Uh, yeah."  There, keep it simple.

"Bit early for the hunting season."

"I'm not here for the hunting."

She cast a speculative glance at his wire basket, crammed to the top with eggs, coconut, condensed milk, butter, flour, figs and brown sugar.

"Let me guess," she said, her mouth twitching.  "You're here for the Queen Elizabeth squares."

Ray's mouth hung open.  "How did you--"

She waved a hand.  "I've only made them a hundred times, though I don't use nuts myself.  Family recipe?"

He tensed.  "Not my family, but yeah."

She nodded at him, apparently satisfied.  "Name's Belinda, but everyone calls me Bella."

He debated with himself for a split second, then thought, _oh, to hell with it_.  "Ray Kowalski," he murmured, extending his free hand.

"Oh!"  Her lips pursed in exasperation.  "For Heaven's sake, why didn't you just say so in the first place?"

Ray was flabbergasted for the second time in as many minutes.  "You've heard of me?"

Bella rolled her eyes.  "Well, you see, we don't get too many nuclear submarines loaded with terrorists in the Territories, so those stories tend to make the news."

He attempted a scowl he knew from the start was doomed to failure.  "How d'you know I'm _that _Ray Kowalski?"

She regarded him with an expression that reminded him uncomfortably of the ghost.  "Because Benton's here, isn't he?"  She gestured at the basket, then patted him reassuringly on the arm.  "You've arrived just in time.  He could do with some fattening up.  The lad's been looking much too thin lately."

Ray's pulse jumped.  His life had become an episode of _The Twilight Zone_.

Bella leaned in and took the basket from his unresisting fingers.  "Let's get these rung up and into bags for you, hmm?  And then you can be on your way."

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

 

"Ow, ow, fuck, ow."  Ray let go of the pan before he should have, and it clattered noisily as it landed on the stovetop.  A dish towel was definitely not enough to protect his hands against 350 degree heat, but he'd felt funny enough about rummaging around in Fraser's cupboards for the necessary bowl and pan, so toasting his pinkies was a minor tradeoff. 

There was something about being here without Fraser's knowing it that creeped him out, but it would be even weirder showing up at the station, and if he wandered around town all day waiting for the other man to get off work, he would be bound to attract attention.   He'd sworn Bella to secrecy after she showed him the way to Fraser's cabin, and despite his initial impression of her, he actually believed she would keep her word.  He figured she must think a guy who'd come a thousand miles to bake squares for another guy couldn't be all bad.

Well, there were plenty of other things he was hoping to do for--and with--Fraser, but Bella didn't need to know about those.  Plenty of things that didn't involve brown sugar and condensed milk, but did involve sweating and moaning and large quantities of pharmaceutical products.

Those he'd picked up in Edmonton.  No way would he have bought condoms and Astroglide from Bella, though he had no doubt she kept a supply of that, too, stashed right beside the chopped walnuts.

"Keep the details to yourself, Ray," he muttered, smiling, as he glopped the creamy coconut icing mixture over the top of the hot squares.  Five more minutes and he'd be done.  Man, he hadn't made a dessert since he'd helped his mom bake toll house cookies in the kitchen when he was about ten.  Dad had been so horrified to see his son in an apron when he came home from the plant that he'd taken Ray out the next day and bought him his first set of socket wrenches.  And on the weekend, he'd finally let Ray help him barbecue the steaks out in the back yard.

Point taken:  if it didn't involve fire and raw meat, it wasn't a guy thing to do.

It occurred to him that he'd never been very good at sticking to the things a guy was supposed to do.  Cars, yeah, boxing, fine, tough cop, okay, but that wasn't all of it, wasn't the beginning, middle and ending of Ray Kowalski by a long shot.  He'd always been ashamed of that part of himself, ashamed and more than a little scared, because that was the part of him that got bruised and battered:  by Stella, by the dirt and filth he saw on the streets, by the hope of something that always seemed to be hovering just out of his reach, teasing him with the mirage of happily-ever-afters.

Well, fuck that.  Today, he was reaching.  And if that involved a frilly apron and baked goods, so be it.

Wrapping the towel around his fingers, Ray picked up the pan again and shoved it back in the oven.  He peered at it through the glass for another minute, then sighed and straightened. 

And nearly died of shock when he saw Fraser's face peering in at him through the window.

"Shit!"  Ray staggered back against the counter for support.  When he looked up again, Fraser was stopped at the entrance to the tiny kitchen, wearing that brown uniform and staring at Ray like he was a ghost.

"Is this some kind of family trait?" Ray panted, hand pressed to his chest.  "Because I'm not gonna last much longer if it is."

He heard a sharp bark, and then Dief nosed past Fraser's legs and promptly placed his front paws on Ray's chest.

"Hey, buddy," Ray said, aware his voice was shaking.  "I brought ya donuts."

"Dief."  Fraser's voice was a growl.  As if responding to the vibration in the air, the animal turned to look at him.  "Outside."

The wolf whined once, then pushed himself off Ray and padded away.

Suddenly Ray felt an urge to follow him, but Fraser was real and solid and definitely blocking his only escape route.  "He, ah, he go to obedience school since I left?"

Fraser looked at Ray and didn't say anything.  Then he took a step forward and still didn't say anything.

Ray's heart was threatening strike action.  He was sure his left ventricle was handing out leaflets, while his right was holding up a picket sign. 

Then Fraser took another step, then another, and he was practically plastered up against Ray, because hey, this was a _small _kitchen, and three steps was pretty much it.

This close Ray could see the truth for himself, see that Fraser was tired and pale and thinner than he should be, and he heard himself blurt out the first stupid thing that came into his head.

"You don't look so good."

Fraser didn't bat an eye.  "I know," he said simply.

"H--how come?" Ray stammered, hating that he was stammering.

Fraser cocked his head then like he was listening for something, but all Ray could think about was how easy it would be to kiss him now. 

"Don't you know?"

Ray shook his head; Fraser's expression clouded for a second before he took a small step back.

Then he sniffed the air, and Ray's hands clenched the counter so tightly he thought it might crack.  "Bella told me you'd been in, but she refused to tell me what you'd bought."

Ray gaped.  "She promised me she wouldn't--" he began, then cut himself off.

Fraser's eyes couldn't seem to decide which part of Ray they wanted to settle on.  First it was his hair, then his nose, then his mouth, then what the hell, an ear, why not.  "Well, you see, she had little choice.  I tracked you to her store."

"You--tracked me?" Ray said weakly.  Why was the thought of that making him hot?

Fraser nodded.  "It's standard procedure for us to check the manifests of the planes coming into the airstrip, and my 2IC recognized your name on Mike's passenger list.  After that, it was a simple matter to find out where you'd gone.  There are a limited number of stores and restaurants in town."

"Oh," Ray said, kind of disappointed.  "So, you didn't have to like, lick anything in the line of duty this time."

Fraser's eyes widened slightly.  "No," he said, and his voice was almost as low as when he'd been talking to Dief. 

"So," Ray breathed. 

"Yes," Fraser said, and the look in his eyes wasn't anything Ray could understand, because nobody had looked at him exactly like that before.

"I, ah, I think I gotta take those out now."  One hand rose and gestured feebly at the oven.

Fraser didn't move, kept looking at Ray.  "What did you make?"

"Can't you tell?"

Fraser closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  "I can catalogue the individual ingredients, but the end result is..." 

His eyes snapped open. 

"No," he whispered.

"They're, ah--"

"Queen Elizabeth squares," Fraser interrupted, voice gone suddenly tight.

"Yeah."

Fraser blinked.  "I haven't had those in thirty-five years."

"I, ah, somebody I know gave me a recipe.  I thought you might like 'em, being as how they were named after--Fraser?"

As Ray watched, the other man spun around and fished a pair of potholders out of a drawer, then yanked the oven open.  He took the squares out, laid them carefully on the stovetop, then stared at them for a long time.

"Ray, where did you get the recipe for these?"

Ray shook his head.  "You'll think I'm nuts."  He snorted.  "Hell, I think I'm nuts."

In a heartbeat, Fraser moved from the stove to Ray, his palms flattened against the cabinets behind Ray's head, his body close and warm and trembling.  "Ray, why did you come?"

Ray was suffocating, his lungs working overtime to take in air.  "I don't know."

"Don't lie to me," Fraser growled.

Ray's eyes narrowed.  "Quit that.  I'm not one of your suspects."

Fraser's expression softened, and for a second Ray saw the fear in the other man's eyes.  "Ray.  Please," and just like that he caved, because he'd always been a sucker for that politeness thing, deep down.

"I dreamed about you, all right?"  he snapped.  "I dreamed--that you needed me.  That you sat alone every night and--" he laughed harshly "--and thought about me."  He met Fraser's gaze defiantly.  "Wanted me."

Fraser stared at him, mouth slack, and Ray chuckled.

"And so I hopped a plane and twenty-six hours later, here I am, skinny ass and all, baking fucking squares and wondering what the hell I'm doing reaching for--"

"God," breathed Fraser.  "It was you."

And then Fraser leaned in and kissed him, with the smell of coconut and the press of Fraser's warm body surrounding him.  And Ray opened for him automatically, on instinct, opened his lips and his arms and then he was surrounding Fraser, too, and he didn't have to reach any more because Fraser was.  Right.  There.

When they broke apart, Ray searched his face, an undercurrent of doubt still tugging at him, threatening to carry him back out to sea.  "This is where you belong," he murmured.

Fraser ran his hands up Ray's arms, tracing from biceps to elbows and back up again, mapping the bridge of flesh and bone that held them together.

"This is where I belong," he choked out, and Ray stared at him and saw, not a king or a study in perfection mounted on a pedestal, but--

"Benton Fraser," Ray breathed into his mouth, opening that door and stepping through it without hesitation, because everything was on the other side.

  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

 

"Frase?"

"Mmm?"

"Don't you want to know how I got that recipe?"

Fraser smiled at Ray as they lay together on his narrow bed, skin to skin under the thin coverlet.  He ran the tip of one finger along Ray's stubbled cheekbone, and the other man shivered.  "I believe I already know."

Ray's eyelids drooped.  "You do, huh?"

"Yes."  He took a deep breath.  "It's my mother's recipe."

"That's what the man said."  Ray's voice was growing fainter as he drifted into unconsciousness.

"Should I drape a blanket over the window?" Fraser whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"At this time of year, it stays light here until well into the night," Fraser explained.  "Most people find it disturbing to their sleep patterns."

"It bother you?" Ray mumbled.

"No."

Ray's eyes opened one last time before he succumbed to sleep.  Taking Fraser's hand in his, he brought it to his lips. 

"Then I say, let there be light," he said softly. 

Fraser lay beside him for some time and allowed himself the luxury of falling in love all over again with the play of sunlight on Ray's sleeping face. 

And later, much later, as he too descended into sleep, he whispered,   "Thank you, dad."

**Author's Note:**

> First published December 2003.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Head Trip [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884102) by [DesireeArmfeldtPodfic (DesireeArmfeldt)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldtPodfic)




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